So… Imma post a story… completely original… directly here… just for you people… because… well hell… I have absolutely nothing better to do besides dwell on regrets and read teen driver manuals.
Shadows and darkness. Guilt and confusion. He lay there, curled up like a child, under the dark ocean that consumed him. He stared at nothing, the blackness of the ocean around him. His mind raced, overwhelmed with the thoughts of what he’d done. Everything he didn’t do. His gut wrenched out of him. He felt sick.
“Not again!” he pleaded in a scream, piercing the perpetual silence of the ocean. He tore himself from his bed, tossing the ravaged ocean of covers off the bed. He bolted for the bathroom door, losing his footing on an empty pill bottle, and falling forward. He landed halfway through his bathroom door, hard on his stomach, his head smashing sideways onto the bathroom floor.
“Fuck!” he moaned. He felt the first warm trickles of blood snake down his left ear. He didn’t care. He crawled by his hands in a desperate move for the toilet. He dragged himself from the floor by the rim of a toilet, and released all tension in his body as he hung his head over the rim.
There he remained for fifteen minutes, releasing everything and nothing. He felt so sick. The regret he was burdened with, was too much for his physical being, and was slowly tearing at his mental being. He hadn’t eaten in days… nothing came from his mad run for the bathroom. He only gagged, choking more on tears than his own throat.
He eventually found the strength to stand. He stood over his sink, staring dreadfully at the sink. The stains of blood were still there. He cringed. His mind went black, preparing to rape his world with dark memories. He shook himself, screaming, and slammed his head into the door behind him. “NO!” he cried in his mind. Fear piercing his backbone, he tore his eyes from the blood stained sink and looked into the mirror before him.
He suddenly wished he had kept staring at his sink. The face he saw in the mirror defied everything that was “human.” This was not the face his friends knew. It was not the smiling face of the family pictures, laying in shattered glass throughout his kitchen. It was not the face of the man who stood smiling on his senior prom year, next to the most beautiful girl. “That girl… that…”
He broke down. His knees buckled under the weight of guilt, the weight of grief. He fell to the bathroom floor on his knees, and stared at the bathroom floor behind the veil of tears. His sobs pierced the dead silence of the tiny apartment.
How he wished this pain would leave. He begged for peace, begged for comfort. But nobody could comfort him. Not his friends, not his family, no smoke, no drink. Not even pain, could relieve his darkest of wounds. If only she could be there. She always had comforted him. She had always…
WHAT WAS HE THINKING? She would never come back. She was gone… gone forever…
and it was all his fault… HIS FAULT.
Why… WHY DIDN’T HE SEE IT!?!
The thoughts marauded his mind. He could not silence them. He screamed. Pain coursed through his body. His breathing stopped, his chest tightened. His heart raced and his head throbbed. Every limb numbed with shock. He looked up, and saw a face. He saw a beautiful face, smiling. His screaming became louder, overwhelmed with his demons. The face twisted before him, clenched teeth, scowling eyes… everything changed until the face was a mirror of his own, screaming at everything before it. He screamed until his voice could not shed any more sound, until his throat went dry, and nothing but the silent exhalation of air poured from his silently screaming face. He dropped his head, tears streaming down his face, down his neck, mixing into the sea of sweat that coursed along his chest. His breathing became heavy.
He was so hot. Sweat was everywhere. He hurt so much, he could feel nothing. His mind was overwhelmed, he thought nothing.
He slowly rose, dragging himself up by the frame of the door. He stumbled across his room, to the lone table at the foot of his bed. He picked up a picture, and stared at it, long and hard. He read the letters and numbers scribbled in the bottom corner.
Overcoming the image of the beautiful girl of the picture, stood the words “R.I.P. Whitney, 01/17/10.”
He stared at it for a few minutes, before the phrase “I’m sorry,” was silently mouthed across his lips. He layed a kiss gently on the photo, and set it down on the table.
He slowly turned, and began stepping towards the sliding glass door at the other end of the room. He pulled aside the curtains and opened the door, stepping out onto a tiny outcropping that had barely enough room for him. He moved forward to the tiny fenced edge, which barely came up to his waist. He inhaled deeply, sucking in the fresh silence of the night. He looked out in front of him. In the distance, he saw the skyscrapers of the city, the lights of cars and houses. From his fifth story apartment position, he could hear the sounds of cars silently moving through the empty suburban cascades of the night. He saw the few poor stragglers who walked among the sidewalks at this time of the night. He saw no beauty in this view. He took no enjoyment in this air of night. All he could see was her, and all he could hear was his own screaming. He looked down at the gutter trench, far beneath his balcony, dipping just below street level. He closed his eyes.
A peaceful regret overcame him. “If I could not save her, than I cannot save myself.” He thought, with an overwhelming finality. He pushed against the balcony fence, and opened his eyes. Staring again, at the deep black trench below.
It was the last thing he ever saw.
It was 3:27 a.m. on a cold Monday morning, on the suburban outskirts of Chicago.
The date was 4/13/10.
Michael Thomas was reported dead later that morning by the apartment manager at around 8:17a.m., his body found lying in the gutter trench below his apartment balcony.
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This story is entirely fictional. No characters or references are intended to have any direct relevance or connection to real world people or events. It was merely a story I decided to write. Reblog or share if you want. I honestly don’t care. Call it your own and turn it in for an English project if you want. It’s just something I wrote, and something I will gratefully forget.
